


It's Where You Least Expect It

by ObsidianJade



Series: Just Twinny 'verse [3]
Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: #coulsonlives, Humor, Language, M/M, Random Gratuitous Movie References, Suspension of Disbelief Required, This whole series is crack, expect the unexpected
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-08 07:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianJade/pseuds/ObsidianJade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You knew my mother,” Ethan said, staring up at Cap with something unsettlingly like reverence.  </p>
<p>Or, in which Fate and the Multiverse decide that Phil Coulson’s migraine is nowhere near bad enough.  Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/414342">It's Rarely What You Think</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/389450">It's Anything But Simple</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, story three. Of.... an ever-increasing number, apparently. And yes, I am working on the Clint-and-Will-get-to-know-each-other bit, but I managed to type this one up first. I may need to rearrange the stories at some point, but I should probably stop babbling in my Author's Notes first.
> 
> This one jumps POVs a little - it starts out with Coulson, because apparently _everything_ I write lately starts with Coulson - damn you Clark Gregg! Damn you and your awesomeness! - but will switch over to Steve in Chapter Three and flail around like a headless chicken beyond that, I have no doubt. First chapter is short because my Muse is completely out of my control. Further chapters will vary but mostly be longer.
> 
> Also, beyond chapter four, the crack will fade out a little and reveal an actual, serious plotline dealing with actual, serious issues of the trust/family/fidelity nature. 
> 
> ...yes, I got plot in my crack. No, I don't know what I was smoking.
> 
> Ahem. Moving on.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I make no claims of ownership to the characters depicted herein. This is a work of fiction, no rights are assumed or implied and no profit is made.
> 
> And as ever, thank you to my marvelous Beta/sounding board/madness manager, Irismustang.

___________________________________________

IT'S WHERE YOU LEAST EXPECT IT  
___________________________________________

The original plan had been to get Ethan Hunt discharged from the hospital and the hell away from the Avengers, back onto IMF’s property. Responsibility for a team of super-powered maniacs and crazed assassins, he would take. Being liable for damage to an attention-deficit superspy that was owned by another agency? 

No, thank you.

Which, of course, meant Fate summarily decided to fuck with him.

“A sprinkler malfunction,” he repeated, not quite able to keep the incredulity from his voice. “In IMF’s only remaining uncompromised New York-area safehouse.” 

“That is what I said, Coulson,” Fury answered, sounding far too entertained for Phil’s peace of mind. 

Another spike of pain through his temples reminded Phil that clenching his teeth was not a good idea; stubbornly, he clenched them tighter, hoping the pain would help to ground him. 

_“Nick,_ ” he began, stressing the other man’s name to remind him that at one point, they had actually been friends, and you didn’t _do_ things like this to your friends if you didn’t want to wake up with something unfortunate tattooed down your nose, “what exactly am I supposed to do with them until another safehouse becomes available?”

He knew what the answer would be, had known since Fury’s ringtone had stabbed through his aching head two minutes before, but that didn’t stop him from absolutely dreading the answer. 

Right on cue, the line gave a telltale click, just before Tony Stark’s voice interrupted what - theoretically - should have been a highly secured conversation on a heavily encrypted SHIELD line. 

“Oh, for gods’ sakes, Coulson, just give them the address to the Tower,” Stark snapped, as though he had any right whatsoever to be fed up with the situation. “We’ve got plenty of room for two more, and it would be nice to have a couple of regular people around.”

Before Phil could even begin to iterate the dozens of reasons why it was an Exceedingly Bad Idea, capitals fully deserved, Fury responded with a calm “That seems to be our best option, yes. I’ll tell the Secretary that his men will be with us for a night or two.”

Coulson heard Stark chuckle, obviously pleased with himself, only to be interrupted with, “Mister Stark, we will discuss your ability to hack SHIELD cellphone encryptions at a later date.” 

“Oh, dear, that’s JARVIS calling me, I’ll get you back,” Stark said, too-hasty, and vanished from the phone line with a blat of static. 

“The oddest part of that is that he actually wasn’t lying,” Fury mused, and the light tapping of keys in the background told Coulson that Fury was tapping into Stark’s computer data. Turnabout was fair play, after all - but SHIELD already _had_ Stark’s encryption key. 

“You owe me a pay raise for this, Nick,” Phil sighed, glancing back towards the room where Ethan was no-doubt impatiently waiting for his discharge.

“Like hell I do. You’re already making more than I am,” Fury snorted, and hung up on him before Phil could narrow down the number of profanities he wanted to spit to only the ones in languages he knew Fury spoke.

He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, but the sixth sense that field agents develop for the sake of survival warned him of the presence at his back a second before a familiar warmth touched his skin.

“Houseguests?” Clint asked, his voice wavering between sympathy and amusement as Phil shoved the phone into his pocket. His hands, heavy and callused, settled on Phil’s shoulders with the same delicacy they handled his bow, thumbs stroking lightly over the tense muscles above the collar of Phil’s jacket. 

“Hmm,” Phil managed in agreement, his eyes falling shut as the familiar touch banished the screaming edge of the unwelcome pain behind his eyes. “Hope you don’t mind lending Brandt clothes overnight.”

“I think I can manage,” Clint chuckled, leaning in to nip suggestively at the back of Phil’s neck, the tiny trace of welcome pain forcing back more of the throbbing in his head, and Phil was just tipping his head back against Clint’s shoulder when the squeak of a shoe and a discreet cough alerted them to the presence of a nurse with Hunt’s discharge papers. 

Phil was too tired to blush.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where it gets wild, folks.

“Welcome back, Agent Coulson, Agent Barton. Agent Hunt, Agent Brandt, welcome to the Avengers’ Tower.” 

“Thank you, JARVIS,” sighed Coulson, leaning against the wall to unlace the boots he was wearing. He and Clint could share wardrobes in a pinch, but the archer’s feet were a bit bigger than his. “Who’s here?” Even though all of the Avengers technically had their own assigned floor of the Tower, they had never quite managed to disperse from the penthouse level, where they each had a bedroom and bath to their name, but little else. Thor was the only one of the group who didn’t keep a bedroom on this level; his snoring was as thunderous as his power, and his floor, below everyone else’s, was thoroughly soundproofed. 

“Mister Stark is in the private elevator from his workshop and will be joining you momentarily. Captain Rogers is in the shower, and Doctor Banner is resting in his room.”

“Is that -” Brandt, his expression incredulous, was searching the walls and ceiling, no doubt locating the built-in speakers and sensors. “Is that an _AI_?”

“Yup.” Not bothering to untie his borrowed sneakers, Clint toed them off and kicked them into the corner of the foyer in front of the elevator. Phil countered by throwing one of the boots at the back of the archer’s head. Clint caught it without missing a beat, and grabbed the second one out of the air without turning when Phil threw that one as well. He knotted the ends of the laces loosely together and slung them over his shoulder before even turning around. 

“William Brandt, Ethan Hunt, meet JARVIS, the being responsible for keeping us all sane.”

“You flatter me, Agent Barton. I was not aware I was capable of the impossible,” JARVIS replied dryly, earning a dry chuckle from Phil and astonishment from Ethan and Brandt.

“An AI with a sense of humor?” Ethan asked, looking almost as amazed as Will. “Benji would love this place.”

“Let’s never bring him,” Will answered with a grimace. “We’d never get him to leave again.”

“True,” Ethan acknowledged, just as the slap of bare feet on polished tile interrupted them. 

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” Coulson called, before the footsteps had even rounded the corner, and a dismissive snort answered.

“I’m not tired, Mom,” Tony answered, rounding the corner in all of his mad-scientist glory; arc reactor gleaming through a black tee-shirt covered in oil stains, welding goggles shoved up on his forehead, bare forearms marked with several burns and a dozen bruises of varying color. He was barely an arm’s length from the four of them when he stopped short, finally processing the presence of two additional people. His eyes flickered briefly over Brandt, then Ethan, then jerked back to Brandt. 

“Oh, wow,” Tony blinked, staring between Clint and Will, who was standing uneasily behind Ethan, close to the elevator doors. “You weren’t kidding about them looking alike. Sorry! Hi, Tony Stark,” he added, extending his hand to Ethan, apparently unaware it was black to the wrist with grease and soot. 

To his credit, Ethan didn’t even bat an eye as he shook Tony’s hand, his grip firm. “I know. We’ve met before, actually.”

Tony’s expression of vague perplexity deepened, his hand stilling and tightening around Ethan’s. “We have?”

Ethan’s mouth twitched upwards. “Your family was attending a science conference in Wisconsin, and you came out to visit. You were seven, and we cannibalized most of my mother’s small kitchen appliances because you wanted hot chocolate.”

Tony’s eyes widened almost comically, his mouth falling open as he pointed at Ethan with his free hand, inarticulate syllables spilling from his mouth until he finally managed “The heated blender!” 

“Yes!” Ethan laughed, his eyes gleaming, and Tony shook his head, chuckling, as he clapped the other man’s shoulder, shaking his hand again, enthusiasm bright in his face. 

“Heated blender?” Coulson repeated, his tone laden with _‘do I want to know?’_

“Hey, it was Wisconsin in March. We wanted hot chocolate,” Tony grumbled, ignoring Ethan’s laughter. “It was _cold_ , dammit.”

“Did it actually work?” Clint asked, his tone skeptical, and Tony snorted at him.

“Again, Iron Man prototype, Mach One miniaturized arc reactor, cave, box of scraps, car battery in my chest,” snapped Tony, his indigence enough that it almost distracted from the fine tremor in his hands as he jabbed a finger at the archer. “And you ask me if I can’t manage something as simple as a heated blender?”

“At the age of seven,” Will reiterated, his voice weighted. The tone was one Ethan was intimately familiar with, top-loaded with exasperation, disbelief, and a suggestion of _‘you belong in a mental hospital.‘_

“Genius. I am a genius. It’s not hard to understand. Yes, it worked, and it was the best cup of hot chocolate I’d ever had.”

“I still haven’t had any to match it,” Ethan admitted, and Tony jerked a nod, apparently having decided something, because he spun on one heel and headed for the kitchen. 

After two steps, though, he paused, spun back, and pointed to Brandt. “Who were you, again?”

Will’s face shifted as though he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or run for the closest cover. “William Brandt, Agent and former Chief Analyst of the IMF.” 

“Nice to meet you. Your bosses are assholes, by the way,” Tony informed him, and marched off again. 

Brandt stared after him for a long moment, his expression mildly pained. “Is he always like that?” 

“No,” Barton answered cheerfully, before Coulson could formulate a yes that didn’t sound like one. “He’s usually a lot bitchier.”

Brandt winced; Ethan, by contrast, burst out laughing. 

“Sounds like he hasn’t changed much,” Ethan chuckled, as the four of them moved on towards the living room. They could hear something crashing in the kitchen as they went by; Phil and Clint exchanged glances, and Barton immediately began shaking his head. 

“No. Hell no. I love you, Phil, but I am not Stark-wrangling for you. Make Cap do it,” he said, backing away with both hands raised to shoulder-height, elbows tucked close to his side to keep from pulling at the burns on his chest. 

“Make me do what?” the man in question asked, appearing from the end of the hallway beside them, dressed in his pyjamas with his hair falling damply over his forehead. “Oh, excuse me. I wasn’t aware we had guests.”

“We can tell,” Clint grinned, and Cap blushed, a light dusting of red across his cheeks. The embarrassment wasn’t necessary; if anyone could make blue flannel sleep pants spangled with white stars and red stripes, accompanied by a plain white tee-shirt, actually look _dignified_ , it was Steve Rogers.

“Not a problem,” Coulson sighed, ignoring Cap’s curious look from Barton to Brandt and back again. “Cap, meet Agents Hunt and Brandt of the IMF. Agents, Captain Rogers of -”

“Wait,” said Ethan, raising a hand to cut Coulson off. “Captain Rogers? Steve Rogers? Captain America?”

“Of course Captain America, where have you been for the past few months?” interjected Stark, walking by them with an armload of dissected machinery. Coulson caught sight of part of the toaster in his grasp and decided against asking.

“Bangladesh,” Ethan answered distractedly, his gaze still fixed on Steve. He looked awestruck. Which, if the bewildered look on Brandt’s face was any indication, was not normal Ethan Hunt behavior. 

“You... you’re really him, aren’t you?” Ethan asked softly. “You’re really Captain America.” His voice sounded shaky, almost hesitant, and Brandt stepped up behind him, leaning into Hunt’s side and resting a hand on his shoulder. Ethan quirked a grin at him, a bare flicker of a glance, before fixing his gaze back on Steve. 

Steve shot a hesitant glance to Coulson over Ethan’s shoulder, looking faintly relieved when the agent nodded. 

“Yes,” Steve answered levelly, extending his hand. “Steve Rogers, at your service.” 

His eyes wide, Ethan clasped the offered hand immediately, his own hand dwarfed in Steve’s huge grip. “Ethan Hunt. It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you over the years.” He paused, a bit awkwardly, as though weighing his next words. “You... knew my mother, sir,” Ethan said slowly, catching everyone’s attention. 

“I did?” Steve repeated, interested but wary, and Ethan nodded, not looking like he dared to believe his eyes. 

“What was her name?” Steve asked, his tone kind, and Ethan had to swallow before he could manage to speak. 

“Margaret Carter,” he answered, and into the sudden, pin-drop silence of the room, he added, “but I think you knew her as Peggy.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for those of you that don't know, I live in Virginia. If you heard about the derecho storms that went through two weeks ago and were wondering if they were as bad as they sounded? Yes, they were. The storms rolled through on June 29th, tearing down trees and power lines throughout the state. The county just north of me was particularly hard-hit and some residents there still do not have their electricity back. I am fortunate in that power on my street was finally restored on July 9th. The ten-day power loss is why this chapter is a bit late. 
> 
> However, it's double-length to make up for the wait! So, please enjoy.
> 
> Final Note: As ever, I cannot sing enough praises for Irismustang, who helped to inspire this story, and who continues to help by lending an ear, adding a helpful word, and corralling my inadvertently miscolored chickens.

The last time disorientation had struck him like this, Steve had just stumbled out of a building and found himself in a Time’s Square decades away from everything he’d ever known. 

Very carefully, he stepped down into the living room, his legs steady under him even as his mind staggered. 

In the background, he was dimly aware of Clint’s incredulous voice, demanding _‘You didn’t know?’_ of a shamefaced Coulson, who only grimaced and shrugged. 

“I forgot. SHIELD keeps tabs on all friends and family of our agents, but Hunt is IMF’s responsibility. He’s not usually on our radar.”

 _Family._ The woman he would have married. The son he would have had. 

Dropping onto the sofa, Steve stared up at the wide-eyed man. 

“Cap?” With a clatter, Tony dropped the contents of his arms into an untidy heap at the mouth of the hallway, abandoning them without a thought as he hopped down the steps into the sunken living room to drop onto the floor in front of Steve, his eyes huge with concern. “Come on, now, I know you’re the peak of Aryan perfection, but you’re really not supposed to be that pale.”

Steve heard Coulson muffle a sigh, but found himself smiling faintly at Tony’s unique brand of helpfulness. 

“I’m fine, Tony,” he said softly, giving the other man’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before glancing back up to Ethan again. “It just caught me by surprise, is all.”

“I can imagine,” Hunt muttered ruefully. The other agent, Hawkeye’s lookalike - Brandt? - was glancing warily between Steve and Ethan, his posture defensive at Ethan’s back as he watched Steve, eyes hard. 

Steve blinked once, glanced between the two men again, and felt himself smile, gesturing for the two to take seats beside him on the oversized couch.

“Hunt, you said?” he asked as Ethan stepped down into the living room, perhaps leaning just a little too heavily against Brandt’s side as they moved. “As in Robert Hunt, U.S. Intelligence?”

Ethan’s drop onto the couch was less than graceful, but his face almost split with the force of his smile. “My father. You knew him?” 

Steve nodded, unable to keep from smiling himself. “I only met him once, but the work he did saved a lot of lives over the course of the war, including my own. I owed him a lot.”

His smile undimmed, Ethan shook his head, disbelief spread across his features. “I wish they could see this. I mean, you’re... this is amazing,” he managed, laughing softly. “Ma... she never stopped believing in you, you know. She always told me that you were the strongest man she’d ever known, even before the serum. You were such an inspiration to me, you have no idea.”

Across the room, Barton’s cough of _‘fanboy!’_ was followed by a muffled yelp as Coulson elbowed him soundly in the ribs.

Pausing, Ethan sobered, staring down at his hands, restlessly twining and untwining his fingers. “She never stopped loving you,” he added, his voice rough, and Brandt’s hand came up to Ethan’s shoulder even as Tony bumped his shoulder against Steve’s hip. 

When Ethan glanced up again, he blanched almost instantly, and stammered out “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have -” and it was only then that Steve realized his eyes were wet.

“No,” he said, brushing his thumb under his eye, then, more firmly. “ _Ethan._ It’s fine.”

The sheepish, apologetic smile that answered him made him want to apologize himself, but he smiled instead, almost surprising himself to realize it was genuine. “Peggy was an incredible woman. You were lucky to have her as your mother.”

Ethan smiled at that, sharp and bright, and Steve felt his breath catch in his throat at that expression; far more familiar than it should have been, but for all the wrong reasons.

Before it could really sink in, though, Bruce stumbled in from the hallway, bleary-eyed and wearing Kermit the Frog pyjama pants and a Metallica tee-shirt he’d stolen from Tony on the last laundry day. Concern for his teammate’s well-being overrode his curiosity over Hunt’s half-familiar smile, and Steve pushed it to the back of his mind as he turned his attention back to the others.

Bruce stopped two steps into the room, stared, rubbed his eyes, looked from Clint to Brandt, and shook his head. “I thought I’d dreamt that,” he sighed, surveying the room again. “I woke up feeling the pressing need to apologize to somebody. Since you’re the one with the greatest visible bruising,” he added to Ethan, “I’m guessing it’s you.” He offered his hand over the back of the sofa to shake. “Bruce Banner. Sorry you had to make my acquaintance the hard way.” 

Ethan took his hand with a lopsided grin, his eyebrows quizzical. “Ethan Hunt. And I think this is the first time we’ve met?”

“It’s not,” the Avengers replied in ragged unison, making Brandt twitch and Ethan blink in surprise. 

“He’s the green one,” Tony added helpfully, and Brandt whipped around to stare at Bruce so fast his neck cricked.

“You -”

Smiling faintly, Banner extended a hand to him as well. “Bruce Banner, the Hulk.”

Blinking furiously, Brandt took his hand and shook it, slowly. “William Brandt. ‘Other Birdie.’ Nice to meet you.”

“Wait a minute, how can you be the Hulk? You’re smaller than I am, where does the extra mass come from?” Ethan demanded, and that prompted the immediate launch of a three-way scientific debate between Tony, Bruce, and Ethan, the agent keeping track of the mangled jargon well enough to throw in intelligent questions at intervals, while the other occupants of the room watched in amusement.

Brandt was watching his partner in bewildered amazement as the man volleyed scientific theories back and forth with two of the greatest minds of the generation. Steve knew the feeling; he got it about every six minutes when Tony was in the room.

Resting his shoulder against the back of the couch, he leaned around behind Ethan and stared at Brandt’s ear until the man turned to glance at him. When the young agent finally met his eyes, he offered him a sheepish grin and whispered, “Do you have any idea what they’re talking about?”

“Not a clue,” Brandt muttered back. “I’m a numbers guy. Statistics, I can do. Bio-engineering and mutational physics tend to lose me.” 

“...in the interest of _discovery!_ ” Tony exclaimed, in response to a question neither Steve nor Brandt had processed, and Ethan cracked up laughing. Bruce leaned over the sofa to smack Tony upside the back of the head, which Tony took as his cue to stand up, take a bow, and start blowing kisses to all the occupants of the room. Barton flipped him off, Coulson sighed, and Banner shook his head in good-natured exasperation.

Brandt glanced back at Steve, and his expression was so close to that of a morose basset hound that Steve had to restrain himself from patting the man’s head. 

“Human behavior loses me, too,” Brandt confessed dolefully, and Ethan cracked up again, only managing to stammer out _‘I didn’t assume they were thinking!’_ between snickers.

Brandt buried his face in his hands.

“Oh, there’s a story. Tell me. I wanna know,” Tony grinned, flopping back onto the floor, this time at Ethan’s feet, and Coulson hustled down the steps to intervene. 

“There will be time for storytelling later, Stark. Right now, it’s been a very long day, and it’s time for all good agents and bad consultants to be in bed.”

Stark and Hunt exchanged brief glances from the corners of their eyes, turned back to Coulson, identical broad grins above equally stubborn chins, and moaned in perfect unison, “But _Mom_...”

“Terror twins,” Barton muttered from the other side of the room, and it was only Steve’s enhanced hearing that let him catch the comment. The words hovered on the edge of his mind for a moment before sinking in, but when they did...

His breath seized in his chest, tightening into a painful knot below his sternum, and he fought down the urge to gasp, to fight for breath, forced his body to stop fighting what felt like an asthma attack and drowning all over again all at once -

A hand landed on his shoulder, the fingers tightening enough to pinch, and a warm exhale brushed his ear. “Cap.” Barton’s voice, quiet. Concerned. “You okay?”

Steve nodded mutely, raising his head enough to see the two identical pairs of wide blue eyes watching him. Everyone else’s attention was on Coulson and Stark’s argument (“Do _not_ make me tase you, Stark. I’d enjoy it far too much for a public area.” “So, does Barton indulge this Taser kink of yours often?”)

The hand on Steve’s shoulder tightened abruptly as Coulson lunged at Stark, Ethan quick-rolled over the arm of the sofa to avoid the scuffle, and Brandt swore as he dove after Hunt. 

“Philip Coulson, if you strain that shoulder again I am tying you to the goddamned bed for a _week_ ,” Barton bellowed, straightening up so that he at least wasn’t yelling in Steve’s ear - not that it made much difference - and vaulting off the back of the sofa where he’d been perched to haul Tony out of Coulson’s headlock. 

Coulson’s response was, naturally, to put Clint in a headlock instead, but the archer didn’t seem particularly bothered by that. Which just showed how much he trusted Coulson, Steve supposed. 

Tony had scrambled away as soon as he was free of Coulson’s grasp, snatching up the scrap pile he’d dumped in the hallway and vanishing towards his private elevator without so much as a goodbye nod, and Steve sighed. Even after several months, they were all still feeling out personal boundaries; Tony’s in particular were alarmingly fickle. Most days, it took a jackhammer - if not a god’s hammer - to get through the defensive layers of arrogance and snark that surrounded him. Other days, a sharp look or a cross word would have him retreating to his workshop in a huff until either Steve or Bruce went to drag him back out.

“Um,” said Bruce, sounding very awkward, and everyone glanced up at him as he shifted his weight from foot to foot at the top of the steps, eyes flicking anxiously over everyone in the room but never settling. “Are Agents Hunt and Brandt staying?”

“That’s what they told us,” Brandt sighed, and Coulson nodded, releasing the hold he had on Barton and wincing as he straightened his arm.

“They’ll be staying here until another IMF safehouse becomes available,” Coulson explained, edging one hand up in an attempt to discreetly rub his shoulder and freezing in place when Clint spun around to glare at him. 

“Probably a day or two at most,” Hunt offered as he hauled himself up off the floor, leaning down to drag a reluctant Brandt up with him. “They don’t like me off their radar for very long.”

“Oh, I wonder why,” Brandt muttered, not quite under his breath, and Ethan turned a look on him.

“I don’t know which incident you’re thinking about, but it’s not my fault.”

“Of course they’re not your fault,” Brandt shot back, waving a hand in exasperation. “They’re never your fault. Sidorov set you up for the incident with the six strippers in Belarus, Benji was responsible for Taiwan, the thing in Vietnam was our translator, and the issue in the Caribbean was caused by a rogue chicken.”

There was a long moment of silence while everyone debated asking about the chicken, but Clint broke it by asking “Anatoly Sidorov?”

Hunt glanced over, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Yeah, you know him?”

“Sure. He’s been Skype-dating Tasha for ages now. I think they met while she was still on her previous life, but as far as I know they’ve never tried to kill each other.”

“She’s in better standing with him than we are, then,” Brandt remarked dryly, not sounding remotely surprised by that. 

“He probably never suspected her of blowing up the Kremlin,” Ethan pointed out, and was promptly interrupted by a hoot of laughter from Clint. 

“Wait, wait, you’re the crazy American from the parking garage? That explains... a lot, actually, ” Clint trailed off, one hand over his mouth as he fought off his grin, and Ethan sighed deeply. 

“Whatever he told you about Belarus, all of them survived without permanent injury. And any rumors of my being onstage when the place exploded -”

“What happens in Minsk, stays in Minsk,” Coulson said firmly, moving to cross his arms over his chest and wincing. Clint glowered at him, unimpressed, before turning back to the room at large.

“Bruce, go check on Stark and make sure he’s not doing anything suicidal or monumentally stupid. Phil, go and get ice on that shoulder, now. Brandt, Hunt, c’mon, I’ll show you your room.”

He didn’t ask if they minded bunking together, but neither of the men protested the assumption. For him, sleeping in a strange place was always made easier with a familiar presence, and it was likely the same for the agents. The duo trailed Clint out of the room like ducklings, Brandt yawning as he went, Ethan casting a departing grin over his shoulder to Steve. Coulson drifted back towards the kitchen, presumably to collect an icepack, and Bruce quietly slipped out, heading for Tony’s lab.

Within minutes, the room was empty except for Steve himself.

Very carefully, he stood. For the first time since waking up in a century that was not his own, he felt every one of his ninety-four years of technical age. The weight pressing down on his mind made his body painfully heavy as he made his way down the hallway to his own room. He opened the door carefully, aware of Brandt watching him from the spare room at the end of the hall, and stumbled in, standing shaking in the middle of his floor.

“JARVIS,” he said softly, pressing the door shut behind him, “are your in-house sensors able to perform a non-invasive analysis on human DNA? Specifically to determine paternity?”

“They are indeed, Captain Rogers,” the AI responded, sounding entirely unsurprised by the request. “May I ask which person you would like analyzed?”

Walking carefully to his bed, Steve dropped down to sit on the edge of the mattress before reaching into his night table, picking over the spines of the sketchbooks there by feel until he found the one he was looking for. Tugging it out, he flicked easily through the familiar pages until his fingers landed on the picture he sought. “Yes,” he said softly, staring down at the unforgotten face. “Agent Ethan Hunt.” 

His face captured forever in the trace of ink on paper, Howard Stark smiled blindly out at the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No power outage this time. Just work. And the chapter running completely away from me, which I blame on Brandt and Barton, because when they're in a room together, the chapter ALWAYS runs off on me. 
> 
> Not proofed, because I wanted to get this chapter _up_ already, so just tweet/email/comment if you see any major glitches and I'll do an edit. Contacts are in my bio.

“I’m afraid the results of the analysis will take a few minutes, Captain,” JARVIS told him, sounding genuinely apologetic, and Steve wondered at the difference between the program and his creator. 

“That’s fine, JARVIS. I could use a minute to get my thoughts in order, anyway,” he answered softly, tracing a fingertip along the curve of Howard’s inked cheek. The man had been his friend - a good friend, not the best a man could ask for, but a good friend all the same. And now, there was a man down the hallway that meant Howard might have betrayed the last trust Steve had left.

As soon as the thought occurred to him, Steve shook it aside, irritated with himself. Ethan wasn’t that old. By the time he was conceived, Steve had been in the ice and as good as dead for a quarter-century at least. The only thing of Steve’s Howard had betrayed was a memory. And he had no right to be angry if it had been what Peggy wanted.

There was a faint noise, softer than an unenhanced human would have been able to hear, from the air vent on the wall above his desk. Glancing over at it, Steve cocked his head, straining his hearing to the utmost, and he could only just make out the sound of slow, measured breathing beneath the constant sound of circulating air. 

Months ago, when the Avengers had first moved into the Tower, Clint had awkwardly raised a hand as the group settled in for a movie night, calling everyone’s attention to him. 

“I, um, like to spend time in the ventilation shafts,” he’d managed uneasily, still uncomfortable under the combined gazes of half a dozen people, four of whom he barely knew. “So if you don’t want me near your rooms or your floor just... let me know and I’ll avoid them, okay?” he’d mumbled, before shrinking back against Coulson’s side, trying to take up less space on the couch than his body actually needed. 

Nobody in the group had objected; Natasha had rolled her eyes, Bruce and Steve had shrugged, and Thor - once Bruce had explained to him what ventilation shafts were - had told Clint that he was welcome to occupy Thor’s shafts any time. 

Steve had smacked Tony in the back of the head when the billionaire laughed at Thor, and they all politely refrained from commenting on Clint’s urge to hide, even when in plain sight and in the company of people he should have been able to trust. 

Two days later, Tony had the entire ventilation system in the Avenger’s floors of the tower overhauled, making the shafts large enough to comfortably accommodate someone of Clint’s size and the grates easy to remove from the inside. 

They politely refrained from commenting on that, too, but if Clint spent a little more time in the kitchen, figuring out the meals that would lure Tony from his self-imposed exiles in the workshop and up to the table like the normal human being none of them actually were, nobody commented on that, either. 

Clint had spent a lot of time in the vents over the first six weeks or so, appearing in the actual rooms only when Coulson or Natasha were present and vanishing at the least provocation. As he grew more comfortable with the team, though, his time in the ducts dropped back to almost nothing, and it became commonplace for them to find Clint sitting on top of the refrigerator and grabbing a snack or napping on the common room couch. 

These days, five months in, he only retreated to the vents to spy on his teammates or play the odd practical joke. Steve desperately hoped this was the former.

“Checking up on me?” he asked the vent grate, which responded with a long moment of guilty-sounding silence, followed by a sheepish cough. 

“You looked a little shaky out there,” came the eventual answer, tinny with echoes, and he heard the faint scraping of Clint shifting position within the duct. 

“And how long have you been in my vent?” Steve asked dryly, and the second silence was longer and guiltier than the first. When no response seemed to be forthcoming, Steve tried again. “You heard what I asked JARVIS?”

A sigh echoed out of the grate. “Yeah.”

Steve waited a moment, but Barton apparently wasn’t in a mood to volunteer. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“I saw the same thing you did, a few seconds earlier,” came the soft reply. “That’s one of my biggest problems. There’s a lot of things I just can’t miss.” A beat of silence went by, then; “Tony’s dad was kind of a dick.”

“He wasn’t when I knew him,” Steve sighed, shoulders slumping as he stared down at the sketchbook in his hands. He’d been having variations of this conversation virtually nonstop since he’d woken up, it seemed. “The Howard I knew was a lot like Tony. Arrogant and self-obsessed but with good reason. He was a force of nature, stunning and unstoppable and brilliant and a little terrifying.” Steve paused, dragging in a deep breath as he stared down at the sketchbook, realizing with detached surprise that his hands were shaking. “But despite everything else, he was a good man. You have to believe that.”

“I do believe it,” Clint answered, and Steve wondered if it was just the echoes of the ductwork making the archer’s voice that rough. “Fury still talks about him, sometimes, if you get him drunk enough. They were friends. But when the Strategic Scientific Reserve fell apart, the foundations of SHIELD absorbed their work and a lot of their people, Howard included. You know what SHIELD is, Cap. Working for an organization like this, especially at that level, means you don’t stay innocent very long.”

None of this was news to Steve, but it never stopped him from mourning the Howard he’d known, the man that smiled and laughed and tried to teach the helplessly confused soldier he’d befriended about women and melted cheese.

Not for the first time, he wondered if Howard would have stayed a better man if he had friends around him, the way Steve did today. People to lend a hand when he stumbled and a shoulder when he cracked, people who would listen to his stories about the old days and teach him stories about the new ones. 

It had never mattered that his friends were a god and a couple of mad scientists and a scarred, smirking government agent and a pair of ruthless assassins, one of whom goaded and teased and hid in Steve’s air vents to make sure he was okay. They were his friends, the people he trusted and relied on, and that was all that mattered.

“Hey, Clint?” he asked softly, smiling at the inquiring noise that drifted out to answer him. “Thank you. For being here, I mean. It.... means a lot to me.”

Even with his enhanced hearing, he could only just make out Clint’s murmur of _“me, too.”_

The silence lingered for a moment after that, somehow awkward and comfortable simultaneously, and Steve was debating whether to invite Barton in when a timid knock sounded on his door. 

Most of his teammates - everyone except Banner, actually - knocked and then walked right in, invited or not. Banner at least waited for Steve’s okay, but that was probably because he was the only other person on the team who still possessed a sense of modesty. The others either never had it to begin with - Thor - or had long since disposed of it as an unnecessary hinderance. 

“It’s open,” Steve called, expecting it to be Bruce at his door, asking for help in collecting Tony from the recesses of his workshop. It therefore took him a moment to parse the fact that the man stepping awkwardly into his room was actually William Brandt. 

In the vent, Clint’s soft breathing dropped to near silence, a sniper’s focus coming to bear as he waited to see what would happen. It brought Bucky to mind as it always did, the memory of him still fresh and raw. Bucky had been high-strung, always in motion, until he settled down to wait for the perfect shot, his eye glued to the sight of his gun and his body as still as a stone. 

Steve had always envied snipers their patience. It wasn’t a virtue he’d really been blessed with. 

“Agent Brandt,” he said, folding his sketchpad shut and standing up to greet the man. “How can I help you?”

“Out there in the living room, when Ethan and Tony were goofing around...” Brandt began, his tone guarded as his gaze darted around the room, marking exits and corners. 

Steve nodded once, slowly, and stepped backwards to sit back down on his bed. “You saw it too, then.”   


“I was Chief Analyst for the IMF,” Brandt answered, carefully making his way further into the room. “It’s my job to see things.”

“That sounds familiar,” Steve answered with no little sarcasm, keeping his eyes on Brandt so that his gaze wouldn’t slip back to the vent. 

Brandt’s mouth flicked in a lopsided half-smile, his eyes still flickering nervously around the room. There wasn’t much for him to see; despite Tony’s best efforts, the decorations in the room were still minimal. The double bed was covered in a plain blue spread, and the solid oak headboard - _“It’s not a splurge, it’s a necessity. If you have nightmares, you’re going to break anything else thrashing around.”_ \- had only the barest minimum of carved detail. The nightstand was littered with a familiar accumulation of pocket detritus - a grocery store receipt, loose change, a couple of ticket stubs, a handkerchief. His phone was blinking a little red light at him from next to the lamp base, trying to remind him to plug it in. The bottom shelf of the nightstand held his filled sketchpads and the books he was reading - _The Da Vinci Code_ , Mercedes Lackey’s _Magic’s Price_ , and the copy of _The Prisoner of Azkaban_ that he’d borrowed from Clint. 

Tucked in beside the window, taking advantage of the natural light, was a top-quality drawing table, stocked with every possible art supply Steve would never have considered asking for. Tony had bought enough to keep an art store in the black for a year, even with prices being what they were nowadays. An easel and canvas had been tucked in beside the desk, a clean palette was slotted in at the top of the desk, leaning against the drafting lamp, and the compartments of the desk were a riot of color from the tins holding the paints, pastels, pencils, ink pens, and charcoals that he’d been delighting in for months. He knew that the other Avengers had put some of his sketches up on their own walls; he’d seen them during accidental glances into their quarters - but his own room wasn’t for displaying his art.

A handful of old photographs, mostly salvaged and reprinted from digital archives, had been framed and shared space with the small television atop his dresser, Dum Dum and Gabe and Morita and the rest of the Commandos grinning at him in shades of black and white. Two photos shared a place of honor on the dresser’s top, propped up in front of the pot holding the lucky bamboo Natasha had given him; one of Bucky and Howard flanking Steve, who was holding up his new shield and grinning like a loon, the other of the entire Avengers team, at the party they’d thrown after they’d gotten Coulson back. Clint’s hands were bandaged in the photo, white gauze painfully clear with his arms around Coulson’s shoulders, but everyone in the picture, even Natasha, was grinning ear to ear.

The only decoration on his walls were a pair of vintage posters dating back to the days of Steve’s USO tours, which Tony had mumbled something about Howard having saved before quickly changing the subject. They were far from the first thing Steve would have picked for his own walls, but he’d never had the heart to take them down. 

When Brandt hesitantly moved towards the chair at the writing desk, Steve waved him to sit on the bed beside him instead. Brandt did so a little warily, and watched with wide eyes as Steve picked up his sketchbook and flipped it back open to the page showing the picture of Howard Stark.

Brandt stared for a moment, before carefully reaching for the book, the arch of his eyebrows conveying a silent request for permission. Steve handed it to him without hesitation.

“Stark’s father?”

“Howard,” Steve nodded. “He was... my friend.” It was the simplest word for what Howard had been to him, to everybody, but it was enough.

“You drew this?” Brandt asked after a moment, and Steve nodded hesitantly. The delight that the other Avengers expressed in his work was never quite enough to reassure him that he was good enough - _‘Self-doubt just makes you part of the team, Capsicle,’_ Tony had teased him once, clapping his shoulder before wandering off again, a glass of whisky in one hand and a socket wrench in his back pocket.

Brandt surveyed the sketch with only a faint lift of his eyebrows, but his expressions were enough like Clint’s that Steve could read impressed surprise in the lines around his eyes. “You’re very good,” Brandt said simply, handing the pad back, and Steve found himself blushing. 

“I... thank you,” he managed. “I was going to be an artist, actually, before.... before the War.”

“You had a talent for it,” Brandt answered, sounding genuine, if a bit surprised, and Steve beamed in response. “I can see him in Ethan, knowing where to look.”

“Captain Rogers,” JARVIS spoke up, his voice almost hesitant, and Brandt jerked at the sound, a sharp, nervous twitch. Steve settled a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension-knotted muscles all but spasming under his hand. He squeezed gently, trying to coax the agent into relaxing, and glanced upwards at the camera in the ceiling. 

“Yes, JARVIS?”

“I have the results you requested, sir. Would you prefer them transmitted privately to your computer?”

Steve hesitated for a split-second, weighing the trust he had in the two men listening, then shook his head. Brandt was Ethan’s partner, and Tony trusted Clint in a way he rarely trusted anyone, the common thread of their miserable childhoods uniting them. “Just say it, JARVIS. I trust these guys.”

There was a sharp thunk from the duct, and Brandt jumped again, one hand flying behind him, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there, his eyes widening further when his hand closed only on the fabric of his sweater. 

“Take a pill, Brandt, it’s me!” Barton snapped, his face appearing behind the grate a second later. “I was chatting with Steve before you came in here, and I couldn’t get away without making a racket.”

“You...” Brandt stared for a second, then shook his head with a smile as Clint swung the grate out on silent hinges, lithely slipping down to the floor and dusting off the knees of the ragged navy sweats he was wearing. The dusting off was for pure show, of course; Tony had a state-of-the-art air filtration system installed that he’d designed himself, and he would never stand for dust in his vents. 

Stifling the urge to laugh, Steve waved for Clint to join them on the edge of the bed and looked up to the small camera he knew was hidden in the center of his ceiling. “It’s all right, JARVIS. We’re all going to know soon enough anyway. Nobody here can keep a secret anyway.”

“Regrettably true, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS answered dryly, no doubt remembering one of the innumerable times it would have been highly preferable for one of the team to do precisely that. “The results of my analysis have proven your suspicions correct. Ethan Hunt is unquestionably the son of Margaret Carter and Howard Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, in case you were wondering, all of Steve's books came off of my own bookshelf. Three of my favorite selections out of... several hundred.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS: This chapter cuts over to Tony’s POV, starting just after he flees the living room. So all of the usual Tony!warnings apply - angst, emotional issues, references to emotionally abusive childhood, profanity, unhealthy eating/sleeping habits and the results thereof, a minor emotional breakdown, accidental self-injury, massive run-on sentences, etc. Also, passing reference to canonical suicide attempt. Needless to say, this is not the happiest chapter in the story.

Shaking, he pressed himself against the wall of the elevator, feeling the coolness of the metal seeping through the sweat-dampened cotton of his shirt. His breath was coming in rough gasps that had nothing to do with the ghost-echo sensation of Coulson’s elbow against his throat; Agent had only been playing with him, he’d barely exerted any pressure at all.

No, it was the sharp reminder of something he’d never expected to face again that was stealing the air from his lungs, every gasping breath he took aching against the unforgiving edges of the arc reactor, the pain dizzying enough that he wondered for a brief second if one of those pieces of shrapnel hadn’t torn free of the electromagnet and sliced into his heart. 

That wasn’t the case, though, couldn’t be the case, JARVIS would know, _Tony_ would know if his chest was being torn to shreds from the inside out, there would be blood and sirens and a lot of yelling, so it wasn’t the shrapnel tearing his heart open, it was just his heart tearing itself.

He registered JARVIS speaking to him, not the words but the tone, gentle and concerned, and no matter what Howard had ever said, Tony was not worthless, because he’d done what they always said was impossible, he’d created an AI that fucking _felt_.

“Fuck you, Dad,” he whispered, clutching the mess of half-dissected kitchen appliances closer to his aching chest. “Fuck you and all of your goddamned secrets.”

When the door of the elevator opened into his private workshop, Tony stumbled in, dumped his armload on the surface of a mostly-clear workbench and lost himself in the familiar motions of work, Guns ‘n’ Roses screaming in his ears.

__________________________________________

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been nose-down in the toaster before the door of the workshop opened - because thanks to Coulson and Steve and fucking _JARVIS_ ganging up on him, there was no loyalty anymore - he couldn’t even lock down his own goddamned workroom anymore, even when he wanted to be alone. The door opening meant the volume of the music automatically dropped, _Paradise City_ reducing to little more than a background murmur.

Glancing at the distribution of parts scattered across the table, Tony guessed it hadn’t been more than seven or eight minutes since he’d fled the living room. “Were you standing outside the door for very long?” he asked, not raising his head from his work as he held out an expectant hand for the screwdriver Dummy was toying with. 

“A few minutes, yes,” Bruce confessed, taking a few careful steps into the workshop, sidestepping a precariously-stacked pile of scrap armor salvaged from a flock of Doombots after a battle five days prior. 

“Then you should have been able to tell I’m not drinking or bleeding,” Tony answered, snapping his fingers in an attempt to catch Dummy’s attention. “You can leave now - not you, Dummy, get back here and give me that!”

Bruce smiled wearily, patting the robot lightly on his upper joint as Dummy whirred past him, the screwdriver Tony had wanted still held firmly in his metal fingers. 

“Being a special snowflake just means I can melt you, you worthless pile of scraps, now get back here and - wait, don’t you dare - oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m taking that out of your pay, you realize,” Tony snapped after the ‘bot when Dummy very neatly tossed the screwdriver onto the top of a seven-foot storage cabinet, where Tony would be completely unable to retrieve it without help. Or a stepladder, anyway.

When Bruce wasn’t quite successful in masking his chuckle, Tony swung a glare on him. “You may not comment,” he growled, digging one hand into his pocket for - ah, there it was, and why the hell did he have six Kleenex in that pocket anyway, seriously - his pocketknife, which he extracted and flipped open, working the flat of the blade under the wire connections to start prying them loose.

“We just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Bruce offered gently, leaning against a relatively uncluttered corner of the next worktable. 

“ ‘We’?” Tony echoed, carefully levering the blade until the connection popped free. “You’re not going to tell me that the Hulk said ‘Hey, Bruce, check Soup Can, make sure he not being as stupid as you were’?” 

“I don’t expect you to develop a taste for bullets because of a wrestling match with Coulson,” Bruce answered blandly, a faint, tired smile pulling at the edges of his eyes and mouth. “And you don’t keep a gun down here anyway.”

“Even if I did, JARVIS and the bots wouldn’t let me do anything that stupid with it,” Tony shot back, working the blade of the knife under a second connection. “And JARVIS would notify all of you I was being a moron, because I have no privacy anymore -”

“Speaking of which, sir,” the AI interrupted smoothly, “Captain Rogers is requesting a DNA analysis on Agent Hunt.”

“Oh, he saw it, did he?” Sighing, Tony popped the second connection free with a sharp twist of his wrist and set to work on the third. “Why am I not surprised? Maybe the fact that he knew dear old Dad better than I did?”

“Agents Barton and Brandt have also expressed the same curiosity, sir,” JARVIS added, his tone apologetic. “I have forestalled them by saying that the tests would take some time to run, but I need to know what answer you wish me to give them.”

“Oh, what the hell,” Tony muttered. “We don’t have any proof beyond my parent’s screaming matches over it anyway, go ahead and run the scans.”

“I ran the scans the moment they entered the building, sir,” JARVIS replied, actually sounding affronted. “Much of it was to confirm the results of Agent Brandt’s tests with my in-house sensors, however, I wished to determine the truth concerning Agent Hunt as well.”

“So Barton and Brandt aren’t related,” Tony muttered, wrenching the third connection free and turning his attention to the last one, focusing on the mess of wire and plastic in front of him and firmly ignoring Bruce’s bewildered presence. 

“No, sir, they are not.”

“But Hunt and I are.”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS answered, his voice soft and a little sad, and the last connection abruptly popped free and the knife shot forward, point slamming home in the tip of Tony’s finger. 

Hissing curses, he jerked his hand away from the tangled wires, blood scattering in bright drops across the surface of the table and the bright pieces of stainless steel lying on it. 

_Shared blood_ , Tony thought with a sigh, staring at the gleaming drops, even as more of them slid from the tip of his finger, falling silently to land on the oil-stained floor at his feet.

“Stark.” A hand, cool and hard with calluses, touched his wrist, and Tony jerked to awareness, his head snapping around to face Phil Coulson.

The man’s eyes were sad, soft with sympathy but no pity, and he carefully turned Tony’s hand palm-upward before pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of his suit trousers and pressing it to Tony’s bleeding finger. Behind him, Bruce was already digging into the first-aid kit, unpacking tape and antiseptic and sterile gauze. 

“Get the styptic, too, please,” Coulson called over his shoulder, not taking his attention from Tony, and Bruce nodded briefly, rummaging under the mess of supplies to find the syringe of clotting gel.

“Agent Hunt?” Coulson questioned gently, his eyebrows spelling out the question. Tony grimaced in reply, dropping his gaze to avoid Coulson’s too-penetrating blue eyes. There was an ice tape wrapped around Coulson’s left shoulder, the rich blue of it clearly visible through the thin white cotton of his undershirt, and Tony stared at it in lieu of meeting the agent’s eyes.

“My brother,” he mumbled unthinkingly, and winced when Bruce dropped the styptic pen in shock. “Half-brother,” he clarified, shifting his gaze down again, staring at the crumpled, blood-stained mess of white linen that Coulson was holding tight around his injured finger. “My half-brother,” he repeated, and suddenly the words were _funny_ , it was fucking _hysterical_ that he had a family, a blood relative, and god, he even _liked_ Ethan, what the hell was wrong with the world?

“Tell them,” he gasped, the words escaping around gasps of convulsive laughter that were more painful than his earlier breathlessness. “JARVIS, god, _tell them_ , let them know, I don’t want to keep Howard’s fucking secrets anymore,” he whispered, tasting salt as he spoke, and finally the full ninety-seven hours he’d been without sleep crashed down on him all at once. 

He let his knees fold, sure for what might have been the first time in his life that someone would catch him.

“Tell them,” he whispered again, and let the exhaustion carry him away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow, this chapter is severely overdue. *coughs* Captain Obvious strikes again. Ahem. 
> 
> Well, last month was tied up with a lot of stuff, including costuming and travel plans, because I was at Dragon*Con and cosplaying the Black Widow takes more effort than you would expect given that her IM2-era outfit is basically a unitard and a gunbelt. None of this is the point.
> 
> The point (there is one, yes) is that while I was at Dragon*Con, I was able to MEET MERCEDES LACKEY. Which, just, oh my gods. I can’t tell you. And I still can’t believe I did it, but I actually plucked up the courage to tell her about my mention of Magic’s Price in my earlier chapters, and the wonderful response that you guys gave it. 
> 
> I wish I could have hugged her, because she actually reacted with amused delight, and she’s familiar enough with Cap’s backstory that we spent a minute chatting about culture shock and societal homophobia before I had to move on (it was at the end of a group panel, and there were a bunch of people waiting to speak to her). I wish there had more time, because I would have loved to have talked to her more, gone into the discussion a little deeper, found out what she knows about the Avengers and Cap’s story, but... 
> 
> I am still, two weeks later, flailing over the fact that I MET MERCEDES LACKEY and _oh my gods I made her smile._ /thud.
> 
> **Actual, pertains-to-story- A/N** : WARNINGS for this chapter are PTSD and stress-related nightmares, and allusions to canonical child abuse.
> 
> This chapter cut a little shorter than I had initially planned, because the most appropriate break point got bumped around in the edits. The next chapter is partially written and should not, gods willing, take over a month to publish. If it does, you are more than welcome to yell at me and throw heavy virtual objects at my Twitter.

It was only years of experience that let Coulson stifle a yelp and a curse as Tony suddenly staggered, hysterical laughter dissolving as the man lapsed unconscious and collapsed into his arms. Stark wasn’t a big guy, but he wasn’t light, either, and the jolt of pain that went through Coulson’s shoulder reminded him that he had no business trying to hold the other man up.

“Banner!” he snapped - unnecessarily, because Bruce was already beside him, arms around Tony’s shoulders as he carefully took the billionaire’s weight, easing him down to the cool concrete floor. He was already checking Tony’s pulse by the time Coulson straightened again.

“How bad is he?” 

“In my professional medical opinion?” Banner answered, deadpan, and Coulson permitted himself a brief sigh before answering.

“Yes, Doctor Banner, a professional opinion would be appreciated.”

“Well, in my extremely professional opinion,” Banner answered, setting a hand on Tony’s chest, well to the side of the arc reactor in deference to Dummy’s nervous hovering, “he’s an idiot.”

“I’m so glad you could clarify that for me.” 

“Exhaustion and dehydration compounded by an emotional breakdown. Unless I’ve missed anything underlying - JARVIS?”

“Your assessment is accurate, Doctor Banner,” the AI responded promptly. Then, a little more hesitantly, “Sir has also not been consuming sufficient amounts of food for the past six days, which have likely further compounded the issue.” 

Bruce and Coulson exchanged grim looks, both of them conscious of the wash of guilt they felt. Every one of the Avengers took it upon themselves to care for their teammates in whatever ways they could, but Tony, the one who had given all of them a place to call home, frequently dodged any care the others might have offered. It took a lot more effort than it should have to babysit him, and evidently they were still failing. 

“We’ll have the discussion at a later date,” Coulson said firmly, then glanced upward. “JARVIS, could you patch me through to Captain Rogers’ room, please?”

“Of course, Agent Coulson,” the AI answered smoothly, as Coulson crouched down beside Tony again, eyes on the bloodied concrete and gentle fingertips resting on the pulse in Tony’s wrist. 

______________________________________________

“Captain Rogers, Agent Coulson wishes to speak to you.”

Slouched beside Steve on the bed, his chin resting on his updrawn knees, Clint went still, that sniper’s stillness that made Steve want to reach out and touch him, just to make sure he was still there. Brandt, leaning against the edge of Steve’s dresser where he’d paused his agitated pacing, glanced up, seeking out the speaker JARVIS’s voice emanated from.

“Of course, JARVIS, thanks,” Steve answered absently, his mind still swimming with the knowledge he half-wished he’d never gained. Knowledge of a disloyal Howard, of a Peggy that had moved on, of the child he could have - _should have_ \- known. 

“Cap.” Even through the speakers, Coulson’s voice carried a double edge of exasperation and weariness (Clint had dubbed it Coulson’s ‘Stark Voice’ long before the Avengers had ever become a reality), but there was a hesitance to it that brought Steve’s attention back to the present, no matter how much his thoughts dragged at him. 

“Coulson? Is everything all right?”

“More or less. Could you come down to Stark’s workshop, please?” 

The words were spoken calmly, in Coulson’s even, ever-polite tones, but the back of Steve’s neck prickled with an immediate flush of humiliated guilt. Of course things weren’t all right, he’d invaded Tony’s privacy, used the systems that Tony himself had designed to pry into things he had no business knowing. And it wasn’t as though Tony wouldn’t find out, JARVIS was loyal to his creator first and foremost, of course he would tell Tony that Steve had been asking things he shouldn’t. 

For as much as he pretended to be an open book, Tony valued his privacy as much as any man Steve had ever met. And even if Tony of all people should understand curiosity overwhelming good manners, Steve would be lucky if Tony ever forgave him for the breach of courtesy and common sense. 

Unless - Steve winced as the thought struck him - unless the breach had been so severe that Tony was evicting him from the Tower in retaliation? Was that why Steve was being asked down to the workshop, into Tony’s private domain, so that Tony could order his departure? 

Drawing a deep breath, Steve let his tumultuous thoughts sink and his tactical mind rise, and immediately began reviewing his options. He wouldn’t go back to his barren quarters at SHIELD if he had any choice. There was enough money in his accounts to keep an apartment up; a small one, he didn’t need much, and the expenses for food and sparring equipment would take up more than he cared to consider. He’d have to think about keeping up communications with the team, as well as transportation to and from battle sites, if his relationship with Tony fractured. 

And if that thought caused a stab of pain in his chest, nobody but Steve had to know.

“Cap!” 

The snap of his nickname, only inches from his ear, was enough to startle Steve out of his planning, if not halfway out of his skin, and he was off the bed with his fists clenched before it registered that it was Barton who had spoken. 

“You okay, Cap?” Clint asked, his eyes a little wary and his hands spread, palms forward, as Steve finally focused on his face. “You’re not usually the one who disappears inside your own head.”

That was a lie, of course, but a polite one. There wasn’t a single person on the Avengers’ team that hadn’t dealt with the symptoms of battle fatigue before. _Post traumatic stress_ , they called it now, and there were medications and counseling sessions to combat it, but medications didn’t work on most of the team, and the counselors in their clean, quiet offices could only do so much. None of them knew what it was like to wake up screaming in the night, feeling like you couldn’t breath as memories of the nightmares tore through you; watching your friends die, watching the ice rise. Watching your teammate fall through a hole in the sky.

Looking into the understanding eyes of the two men before him, though, he knew that even if the content was different, the nightmares themselves were all essentially the same. 

“Sorry,” Steve answered finally, dragging an apologetic smile to the surface through a mile-thick layer of guilt and emotional turmoil. “Just... contingency plans.”

“Well, knock ‘em off. No good planning without solid data,” Clint muttered, sounding almost offended that Steve was making plans without his contribution. 

Maybe he was. Despite his argument that he ‘just shot stuff’, Clint was the second-best quick-tactician they had. Coulson was their best, and he’d taught Clint well. Both men knew how to observe a situation in the space of a breath, make a plan in the heartbeat before the squeeze of a trigger or the release of a bowstring. The team had come to rely on them both, Steve perhaps most of all. 

After all, he knew the value of having a sniper watching his back.

Directing his gaze back up tot he speakers, Clint gave Steve’s shoulder a light squeeze as he spoke. “Hey, Phil? Run that all by us again, would you? Cap missed most of it having a little freakout.”

“I was not _freaking out_ -” 

“There’s a lot of that going around,” Coulson’s voice answered, a sigh heavy on the words. “Cap, Stark’s collapsed -”

“What?!” Steve’s head snapped upright so abruptly his neck popped, loudly enough that both Brandt and Barton winced at the sound. “What happened? Does he need medical?”

“He needs therapy,” grumbled Banner’s voice, more distant from the speakers than Coulson’s - probably at Tony’s side. He sounded more exasperated than upset, and Steve felt a little of the tension unknot in his chest even before Coulson spoke again.

“Stark will be fine, Cap. He’s exhausted, overworked, and emotionally drained. He wasn’t expecting to find his half-brother on his doorstep tonight.”

The relief registered first, even with the guilt dogging its heels. Tony mattered to him, to them, no matter how little the man thought of himself. Iron Man was replaceable - Tony Stark was not. 

It took a breath for the first wave of emotions to subside, the space of three seconds, before he noticed the stillness.

Clint, beside Steve on the bed, had gone sniper-still again, so rigidly that Steve thought for a moment some paralyzing magic had been worked on him. Breath stopped in his chest, eyes wide and unblinking, his face a study in disbelief. 

Across the room, still leaning against Steve’s dresser, Brandt had gone equally motionless, his own face registering nothing, eyes half-closed and mouth set. The petrified silence echoed in the room, so loudly that Steve could have sworn he heard echoes of it ringing in the air.

“Guys?” he asked warily, and Clint exhaled a snort that shattered the stillness.

“Fucker,” the archer muttered, and Brandt slowly, silently shook his head from side to side, disbelief edging in to replace the blankness. 

Steve didn’t bother objecting to Clint’s language - the specialist had a filthy mouth, that was beyond changing now, not that he would have tried - but he raised his eyebrows sharply, tilting his head in question. 

“Stark knew,” Brandt said, voice hollow, and Steve blinked as he mentally rewound Coulson’s words. _“He wasn’t expecting to find his half-brother on his doorstep tonight.”_

“Phil,” Barton snapped, glaring up at the camera as though he could drag answers out of the tiny scraps of glass and wire. “He _knew?_ ” 

“Apparently,” Coulson answered, the familiar even keel of his voice not quite hiding his anger, “it was a point of contention between his parents.” There was a pause, then, “Screaming matches were mentioned.”

“Christ, no wonder he’s so fucked up.”

“Don’t pity him, Clint,” Coulson answered, his voice quiet and firm. “And don’t give me analogies about kitchenware, either.” Barton snorted in response and shook his head, silent, but the jump of the muscle at his jaw made it clear he was biting his tongue. Brandt raised a silent eyebrow at the archer, which was answered with a weary roll of Clint’s shadowed eyes and another mute headshake. Brandt grimaced in something that looked a lot like understanding.

Steve felt a headache forming behind his temples. “Coulson,” he began, voice sounding painfully tentative to his own ears, “what do you need me to do?”

“Just come collect Stark and get him to bed, like I asked you to in the first place,” Coulson answered dryly, his tone so much like that of a wearied mother that Steve couldn’t help laughing, a desperate sound that echoed raggedly in his chest. 

“I’ll be right down,” he answered, pushing himself off the bed. That much, at least, he could manage.

_________________________________________________

He couldn’t manage this.

“What do you mean, ‘don’t leave him’?” Steve managed, hoping he didn’t sound as aghast as he felt. Spending the night watching over Tony meant facing the billionaire when he woke, something Steve wasn’t sure he was ready to handle. 

Nobody would ever think to accuse Steve Rogers of cowardice, but people tended to look too much at his mouth and not enough at his heart.

The look Coulson favored him with suggested he was being particularly obtuse. It was a look that all of the Avengers had received at one point or another over the past few months, and even Tony Stark quailed under it. 

When he was conscious to see it directed at him, anyway. 

“I mean precisely what I said, Captain. Someone needs to remain with Tony tonight. He’s likely to be confronting some very damaging memories about his childhood following Ethan’s appearance, and you’re the person here that he trusts the most.”

That was a bald-faced lie - out of all of them, the one Tony placed the most trust in was actually Clint. The duo had bonded one night, a few weeks after Coulson’s miraculous return from the dead, over too many bottles of whiskey and the redesign of Clint’s grappling arrow, the common thread that somehow bound orphaned prodigies together shining bright between them. 

But Clint was still injured, meaning that Coulson was doubly unlikely to let the archer out of his sight to watch over an emotionally compromised and severely exhausted inventor with a propensity for blackout engineering. 

Steve was supposed to be Captain America, their fearless leader, champion of all that was brave and good and just, the one who defended his team through all their troubles, regardless of his own. 

It didn’t stop his hands from shaking as he knelt down to pick up Tony Stark.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual blather of A/Ns: 
> 
> If you missed the story I posted for National Coming Out Day, No Less Or More, I’ll toot my own horn here to suggest you check it out. I’m pretty proud of it.
> 
> And for everyone affected by Sandy, my thoughts are on your safety and wellbeing. She’s thrown a bit of wind and rain our way so far, but I know conditions are much worse elsewhere. Please be smart, and please be safe. 
> 
> WARNINGS: References to canonical child abuse, mention of Tony/Pepper breakup (based off characterization in Iron Man 2), Steve angst, abuse of tense shifts, Tony (because at this point he qualifies as his own warning).

Clint, who had trailed Steve down to the laboratory level after seeing Brandt off to his temporary quarters, leaned against the doorway of the lab, arms folded carefully across his bandaged chest, staring after Steve Rogers’ retreating back. A few curls of dark hair and Tony’s oil-smeared bare feet were all that was visible of the billionaire from his current position, cradled delicately against Steve’s broad chest. 

Clint waited until the elevator doors closed behind them before turning to Coulson, his eyebrows raised. “ ‘Don’t leave him’?”

“I don’t believe it’s in Mister Stark’s best interests to be left unattended after a severe emotional shock. You know he doesn’t deal well with them,” Coulson answered, fussing with the hem of his undershirt. It was a tell, and a very obvious one, which meant he was more tired than he was letting on. 

“Uh-huh,” Clint drawled, twisting away from the doorframe. “Got nothing to do with tweaking the betting pool so that they get together before Fury’s time slot next month?”

“That would be highly unprofessional and entirely unethical.” 

Bruce, who was busy repacking the first aid kit, snorted aloud, and Clint rolled his eyes in silent agreement. 

“But if interpersonal matters between them did happen to... accelerate somewhat... due to Stark’s emotional trauma, it would certainly serve Nick right. After all, he’s the one that ordered Hunt here in the first place.” 

Clint gave a bark of laughter, closed the last few steps between himself and Coulson, and pressed a hard, fast kiss to the man’s lips. “I love it when you get pissy.”

“You must love me a lot, then.”

“You know I do,” Clint grinned, looping an arm gently around Coulson’s waist. “Now c’mon, it’s bedtime. We’ve had a long day. G’night, Bruce!”

“Banner, make sure you get some rest, you’re as exhausted as the rest of us,” Coulson tossed over his shoulder, unfazed by Clint casually hauling him to the elevator. “And I made sure to restock the protein powder you prefer, it’s in the main kitchen.”

“I appreciate that, thank you,” Bruce smiled, handing the first-aid kit off to Dummy to be put away. “Goodnight Clint, Phil.”

The two murmured their final goodnights back to him, their thoughts already on their shared bed and the approaching hours of sleep. Bruce didn’t blame them; the fight with alien wolves had made it a long day, the emotional turmoil even longer. Family was, at best, an uncomfortable subject for everyone on the team, Clint and Tony perhaps most of all.

Bruce’s own memories of his father, while just as brutal as Clint’s, were easier for him to tolerate. Anger was a hungry thing, after all. It needed something to fuel it. 

Tony’s bots were edging in around him, carrying cleaning solvent and shop rags, buzzing and whirring anxiously at the blood spatters on the floor. It probably wasn’t the first time they’d had to clean their maker’s blood off the concrete. Likely it wouldn’t be the last. 

Gently, Bruce patted each of the trio on what passed for their heads. “Your father is a good kind of crazy, guys,” he murmured to the bots, a sad smile overtaking his face. “I know it’s hard on you sometimes, but trust me; enjoy it. It’s better than the alternative.” 

Dummy chirped brightly at him in response, and Bruce chuckled as he left the lab. “Goodnight, guys. Goodnight, JARVIS.”

“Goodnight, Doctor Banner,” the AI responded smoothly as Bruce stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for his own floor. It would be good to get some sleep tonight.

____________________________

_‘Big man in a suit of armor. Take that away, and what are you?’_

The words had haunted him ceaselessly since that first day on the Helicarrier, no matter how many times he’d tried to apologize, no matter how many times Tony had waved it off as inconsequential. Over the intervening months, though, Steve had come to see that Tony, in the suit or out of it, was inevitably a larger-than-life presence that drew as much attention as humanly possible, for good or bad. 

The truth, though, was that Tony, out of the suit and stripped of his conscious defenses, was not a big man at all. When Steve had lifted him, Tony’s lax form fit only too easily in his arms, dark head resting against the curve of Steve’s shoulder. 

‘Thank you, Captain,’ Coulson had said to him, an earnest smile under tired eyes, and Steve had nodded wordlessly as he cradled Tony’s precious weight against his chest. 

‘I... of course,’ he’d managed weakly, then, ‘Should we call Ms. Potts?’

Twin grimaces had answered him, and Coulson had shaken his head. ‘I don’t think there’s any need for this to be brought to her attention. I’ll look in on Tony’s schedule and make sure there’s nothing that needs to be addressed for the next day or two.’

‘Can you make it three?’ Steve had asked, quietly, relieved at Phil’s nod and ignoring the knowledge that Barton was raising his eyebrows behind Steve’s back. It was no secret that Phil had access to Tony’s schedule; when the breakup between Tony and Pepper had come, punctuated by tears and screams - _‘I can’t do this, Tony, I can’t keep watching you go out, wondering if it’s the last time I’ll see you alive!’_ \- it had been Coulson that stepped in as liaison between the two, the job blending almost seamlessly with his position as SHIELD liaison with the Avengers. 

Pepper had returned to Malibu, her relationship with Tony slowly working its way back to the odd mixture of friend-caretaker-taskmaster that seemed best for them both. They called on her only when Tony fell into a downward spiral that the team couldn’t shake him from, something that had happened only once in the months the Initiative had been active. It was still her place to keep Tony sane; or it had been until tonight, Steve thought, stepping into the private elevator that would take him and his too-light, too-heavy burden back to the communal floor. 

It wasn’t the first time that Steve had carried a friend in his arms; whether they had been exhausted, injured, or falling-down drunk, it didn’t matter. The Serum had made his arms strong - strong enough to protect the people he cared for, the people he loved. 

He’d carried Bucky like this, a few times. The night after he’d rescued him from Schmidt’s stronghold, he’d used Bucky’s injuries and exhaustion as an excuse, teasing his best friend until Bucky had relented and allowed Steve to scoop him up. Bucky had curled into Steve’s arms like he belonged there, curled his bruised fingers into the tattered leather of Steve’s jacket and fallen asleep with his head on Steve’s shoulder, exhaling ticklish breaths onto Steve’s neck. 

Steve had carried him for five hours, relieved just to feel him breathe. 

“Captain?” JARVIS’s voice prompted gently, and Steve realized with a start that he’d been staring blankly through the open elevator doors onto the communal floor, completely lost in thought while Tony breathed in his arms. 

“Sorry, JARVIS. Thinking too hard,” Steve mumbled, tucking Tony a little closer to his chest before stepping out into the hall. Whether by accident or design, nobody else was present in the hallway, and Steve made the short journey to Tony’s room in peace. 

It took him another moment of blank staring - this time at Tony’s bed, a tasteful monstrosity of a size so ridiculous Steve doubted there was even a name for it - before he stepped forward with a sigh, carefully lowering Tony onto the silky crimson comforter. 

The inventor was still dressed, his clothes a mess of sweat, oil, and a spattering of blood - Steve hadn’t even thought to question the bandage on Tony’s finger - and several more awkward moments staggered by as innate propriety struggled with innate kindness. Steve had slept in jeans before, he knew how uncomfortable it was. 

Clenching his teeth, Steve reached for the fastenings of Tony’s jeans, keeping his touch as light and clinical as he could, relieved when the shifting denim revealed black silk boxers and not bare skin. He left Tony’s shirt, filthy as it was, even though the worn-thin fabric did little to hide the eerie blue glow of the arc reactor. Even as Steve considered the ragged hem of the shirt, a memory flickered back to him; a month before, an unfortunate incident with one of Hydra’s experimental toxins and a frantic scramble to the decontamination showers. Casual nudity was nothing new to them, but none of them could miss the hunch of Tony’s shoulders, the instinctive lift of his arms every time one of them glanced at him - fighting the urge to shield not his groin, but the glowing light in his chest, from the gaze of the others. 

It became another one of the things that none of them mentioned. Try as he might, Tony didn’t stop looking grateful for that.

It took a little wrangling for Steve to get Tony tucked under the covers, but the billionaire finally rolled onto his side, turning his face to snuffle into his pillow. Steve stood back with an exhausted sigh, dragging a hand over his face as he did so. 

_‘Don’t leave him.'_

His bare feet silent on the heavy carpet, Steve slowly circled the massive bed, sitting down on top of the covers, as far from Tony as the mattress would allow. He stayed motionless for a long moment before letting the weight of the day crash over him, dragging him down onto the crimson silk. Keeping his back to Tony, he let himself settle into the softness of the mattress, knowing even as he closed his eyes that his sleep would not be easy tonight. 

_______________________________________________

The shriek of the alarm cut through Steve’s restless dreams, jerking him awake with enough force to topple him from his precarious perch on the very edge of the mattress. The heavily padded carpet cushioned his landing, but Steve still couldn’t help a grimace at the twinge in his wrist and knees as he shoved himself upright again, mentally cursing out their enemies with every vulgarity he’d ever learned. 

Tony’s wide-eyed gaze met his as soon as Steve’s head rose over the edge of the bed.

“Um. Hi?” Tony offered, awkward confusion hanging in a palpable layer around him, and Steve wondered for a moment if that meant Tony had forgotten the night before. There was a pause, and a grimace. “Please tell me Coulson did not have you put me to bed like a toddler.”

So much for that hope. “I wish I could, Stark,” Steve sighed, putting both hands on the heavy bedspread to push himself to his feet. “Are you going to be all right?”

The wide-eyed nod that answered him was bordering on frantic, too desperate to be honest. “Of course, I’m fine. Don’t mention it,” Tony answered, scrambling out of bed and glancing wide-eyed around the room for a moment, as though scrambling for his bearings. “I mean really, don’t mention it. Because you’re okay, right, with Ethan and everything, and he would have been your kid if the whole Capsicle thing hadn’t happened, I mean, yours and Peggy’s, if Dad hadn’t dicked around, you’ve actually got more at stake here than I do, and if you’re okay with it, then it’s stupid for me to be screwed up, right?” 

The nervous tremors shaking Tony hadn’t ceased during his babble, even as the man darted to his dresser, jerking a change of clothes out of the drawers and shedding what he was wearing without any apparent thought. “I mean, it doesn’t actually affect anything, my Dad was still a dick, you still got put on ice, and okay, so I’ve got a brother,” Tony continued, jerking the fresh shirt over his head with his back to Steve, ignoring the fact that he was still naked from the waist down. “I’ll.... I don’t know, set him up with an estate fund or something,” he mumbled, hauling his boxers up his hips. “No, toys. Spy toys. He’s a spy, they all like toys, right?”

“Tony,” Steve began, warily, and when the other man finally looked at him, eyes raw and frightened, his barriers not yet rebuilt, Steve threw away everything he’d half-planned to say and settled on “Nice boxers.”

“What?” Blinking, Tony glanced down at himself, and grimaced when blue cotton dotted with tiny, familiar shields met his eyes. “God dammit, Coulson.”

“To be fair, you probably deserve him tampering with your underwear after you turned all his socks purple,” Steve pointed out, earning an exasperated huff in response. 

“I keep saying that was Barton, why does no one believe me when I say that that was Barton?!”

“Probably because Clint knows better,” Steve answered, gentling the retort with a smile as he stepped close enough to settle his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Listen, Tony. Are you okay to go out?”

His eyes hardening, Tony moved to push Cap’s hand away, and refused to wince when Steve deliberately tightened his fingers. “If you’re questioning my mental stability, Rogers -”

_“Stark.”_ And that was his Command Voice, the one that made even Nicholas Fury sit up and listen. “Other than possibly Thor, there is not one single person on this goddamned team that anyone in their right mind would consider mentally or emotionally stable. Bruce is probably the sanest of all of us, and you know how frightening a thought that is. We wouldn’t be here if we were sane. But,” leaning down, Steve forced Tony to meet his gaze, holding the other man’s stare, “since that day on the Helicarrier, there has not been a time when I have questioned your suitability for the field. You’ve had more to fight through than any of us, Tony. You’re one of the strongest people I know. So no, I am not questioning your stability.” A breath, and Steve let a tentative smile flicker into place on his mouth. “I was just wondering if you’d gotten enough sleep.”

The silence trembled between them for a long breath, their eyes still holding, until Tony exhaled in a shaking rush and shut his eyes, twisting his shoulder out from under Steve’s hand as he turned away. 

Stung, Steve stepped back, wondering whether it would be better or worse for him to simply walk out now, leave Tony’s room and simply hope for the best, when Tony slowly picked up the pair of lightweight sweatpants he’d left on top of the dresser and step carefully into them, one foot at a time. When he straightened again, it was with a jerk of his arm, dragging the back of his wrist across his eyes to wipe them.

When Tony turned back to face Steve, his face was clear and composed, even if his eyes were a little bright, and a smirk was playing on his mouth. 

“I’m always all right to fight,” Tony answered, quick and cheerfully defiant, “and I got, what, three, four hours? That’s more than I get most nights,” he pointed out, a faint spark of the familiar manic gleam starting in his eyes. “I’ll be all right.” 

“Didn’t doubt it,” Steve grinned back, not bothering to hide the relief in his own face. 

“You never should, Cap. Now suit up, we’ve got a city to save.”

Grinning, Steve left to as he was told.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, at the very least, you get a very long chapter to make up for my complete inability to keep a schedule?
> 
> Note: Steve has his jerk!face on for part of this chapter. Do not blame him, he's still reeling.
> 
> WARNINGS: Brief mention of non-consensual drug use and hallucinations.

For a breath, there was only noise and instinctive panic, and Ethan jerked awake in time to see Brandt nearly brain himself on the headboard of the bed they’d apparently been sharing, eyes wild as he searched for the source of the alarm. 

Even after three years on Ethan’s team, Brandt still wasn’t used to waking up with explosions and sirens as an alarm clock. 

“Brandt. _Brandt!_ ” Rolling up onto his knees and ignoring the pull of his bruises, Ethan put himself into the other man’s line of vision. When that wasn’t enough, he risked the touch of a hand to Brandt’s chest, fingers settling in below the hollow of the analyst’s collarbone, feeling the press and flex of muscles beneath his palm through the thin cotton of Brandt’s shirt.

Brandt went still at the touch, eyes focusing in on Ethan’s face for a moment before he exhaled a curse and dropped his head deliberately back against the wooden headboard. Ethan let his hand stay on Brandt’s chest, following the motion of his body backwards as he gauged the other man’s pulse against the speed of his own breath. More than ten beats in the space of two breaths meant Brandt’s pulse was over a hundred, but it was steadying quickly. 

Brandt moaned wordlessly, threw out a hand to grab one of Ethan’s pillows, and dragged it over his face what might have been an attempt at suicide by suffocation but was more likely him trying to block out the shrieking alarm. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled, the word barely audible through the stifling layer of down-alternative fill. The pillow shifted slightly, freeing up his mouth enough to produce intelligible sounds. “None of that was a dream, was it?”

“What, meeting the Avengers, being Hawkeye’s weirdly unrelated brother, all of that?” Ethan shot back, noting the flicker of tension that rolled through Brandt’s body at the words. He pushed it to the back of his mind, dismissed but not forgotten. “No, none of it.”

“I was kind of hoping it was Somalia again.”

Somalia had involved a small bio-terrorist group with an unsettling level of skill at manufacturing psychotropic and hallucinogenic drugs. Brandt had spent sixteen hours after they’d recovered him convinced that he was surrounded by highly dangerous reptiles. 

Ethan didn’t relish the memory, considering that their rescue had started with Brandt nearly putting a bullet through Benji’s gut, apparently convinced that their tech had been transformed into a crocodile.

“If it had been Somalia again, they would have been Komodo dragons and not alien wolves,” Ethan pointed out. They’d showed him some of the footage from the battle while he’d been waiting for his hospital discharge. Ignoring the mumble of ‘you _were_ a Komodo dragon,’ Ethan let himself grin and patted lightly at Brandt’s chest. “Let’s go see what all the noise is, shall we?”

An incoherent mumble answered him as the pillow was dragged back over Brandt’s mouth, and Ethan grabbed the corner of it and tugged it away in exasperated excitement. “It could be fun,” Ethan half-cajoled as his analyst blinked at him, bleary-eyed with exhausted resignation. 

“It’s going to involve explosions and screaming and maybe even things we _weren’t_ hired for,” Brandt muttered, shoving himself upright. “No one should have to live like this,” he added, swaying in place for a moment while his blood pressure equalized. “Screaming alarms and mutant wolves and unwelcome revelations at all hours of the day and night.”

“Sounds like the perfect life to me,” Ethan answered, knowing his eyes were bright and his grin verging on manic, even before Brandt shot him an exasperated look.

“That,” the man answered slowly, “is because you are _insane._ ” Blinking a few more times to clear the sleep from his eyes, Brandt levered himself off the bed, grabbed his gun off the nightstand and shoved it into the waistband of his sweats, tugging the knot on the drawstring a little tighter to help the elastic bear the weight. 

“Come on,” Brandt sighed, sleep-ruffled and exhausted and eminently tolerant of Ethan’s madness. “Let’s go take a look.”

_________________________________________

The hallway and the living room beyond it were both scenes of tightly controlled chaos. Through the open door of his bedroom, they saw Steve Rogers in the midst of transforming into Captain America, uniform pants and a skintight undershirt already on, boots and shield resting against the side of his bed as he grabbed for the top half of his uniform. 

Ethan dragged his eyes away from the iconic shield - never in his life would he have imagined he’d have the privilege of seeing even the shield, let alone the man who carried it - and looked up in time to meet Rogers’ eyes. The man blinked once at the sight of them, a split-second of surprise before his face closed off entirely, emotions warring behind his eyes. 

“Alarm woke us,” Brandt offered from behind Ethan’s shoulder; unnecessarily, if the somewhat sardonic look Rogers shot him was any indication. “Do we need to worry?”

There was a second of hesitation before Rogers answered. “It’s the Avengers alarm,” he replied eventually, shrugging into his uniform top and snatching up his boots and shield. “Since JARVIS hasn’t said anything, the Tower isn’t likely to be under direct threat, but the team has to mobilize.”

“Can we help?” Ethan asked, stepping back to clear the doorway as Rogers hurried out. His socks, bright blue, had white stars across the toes, and Ethan wondered if they’d been a joke or if the man had gotten them for himself.

“Hopefully not,” Rogers answered, a little sharply, then winced in apology as they moved down the hall. “No. You’re still injured, and I don’t want to consider how the Hulk would react to you. He doesn’t tend to like people who shoot him.”

“That’s fair enough,” Brandt muttered, voice low and close to Ethan’s ear. “I don’t like people shooting at me, either.”

Rogers glanced over his shoulder at Brandt, eyebrows raised. “Aren’t you in the wrong line of work, then?”

Brandt shrugged in response. “At least as an Agent I’m allowed to shoot them back.” 

Rogers snorted and jumped down into the living room, ignoring the short staircase altogether, crossing the room in a few long strides to check in with Stark, who was pacing in front of the windows with agitated strides, fingers rubbing at the two narrow, matched silver bracelets on his wrists as he read the information scrolling across the window screens at a blurringly fast rate.

Doctor Banner was sitting with his back against the wall by the door to the kitchen, legs folded and eyes closed, breathing carefully controlled despite the noise. 

They were all very politely ignoring the fact that Barton and Coulson having a shouting match in the middle of the living room.

“ - told you I can push through it!” Barton snapped, fists clenched at his sides. He was half-dressed aside from his bandages, the same tactical pants that Ethan had admired when he’d first woken up in the hospital room, the vest that presumably matched them dumped on the carpet at his feet. There was a slim black case on the floor next to it; too small for a sniper rifle, too big for a handgun, and the bottom of a cylindrical black something-or-other half-visible from where it had been left on the sofa. 

“I’m not interested in you ‘pushing through it,’ you’ll do more damage to yourself and extend your recovery,” Coulson answered, hands flying over the buttons of his dress shirt, voice level but vibrating with tense anger. “You are benched for this mission, Barton.”

“Unnecessarily! You’re taking a prime asset out of the field for emotional reasons!” Barton shouted, gesturing sharply with one hand - gloved, Ethan noted, but the black leather left Barton’s little finger and thumb bare - and wincing when the gesture pulled on his injured chest.

“I am taking a prime asset out of the field because he’s too stupid to realize he’s too injured to use his own weapon,” Coulson answered, his voice growing lower and steadier in contrast to Barton’s shouts. “You can’t draw and you can't hold your rifle without tearing your injuries.” A breath, and Coulson leaned forward, pressing aggressively into the other man’s personal space. “And despite everything else that I am to you and you are to me, I am still your fucking handler, Barton, and you are not going to argue me out of this decision.”

Barton had opened his mouth to retort - probably a joke on ‘fucking handler,‘ if Ethan had any gauge of the man’s personality - but Stark interrupted before the words could be expressed.

“If this is going to be an extended fight, can I make popcorn?”

“ _Tony,_ ” snapped Rogers, the command in his voice unmistakable. Ethan glanced back and felt his eyes widen. 

At some point while he’d looked away, Steve had finished the transformation into Captain America - shield on his arm, cowl in place over his sleep-messy blond hair, and the difference was striking. Steve Rogers was a friendly, affable man who was embarrassed to have been caught out in his pyjama pants. 

Captain America was a man that even Ethan would have followed through the doors of Hell itself, and trusted to lead him back as well.

“Does anyone else get the urge to salute when he does the Cap thing? Is that normal for people who weren’t in the Army?” Tony asked the room in general, and out of the corner of his eye, Ethan saw Will nod mutely, eyes wide.

“It’s not a fight at all, Stark,” Coulson answered, voice glacially cool as he looped a tie around his neck, fingers flying over the knot without his looking. “Barton will be remaining behind for this mission.”

“The fuck I will -”

Ethan had to agree, though, Barton was in worse shape than Ethan himself. The bandages around Clint’s chest were marked with fist-sized splotches of bloody liquid where the burn blisters had ruptured, and the man was standing curled in on himself, shoulders hunched to avoid the pain. He was in no shape to fight, despite his arguments. 

The memory of their Agent Romanoff, a china doll in a black tactical suit, fighting side-by-side with Jane, flickered across Ethan’s mind, and the plan was fully formed a blink later. 

“You’re a sniper, right?” he asked aloud, turning every eye in the room towards him. Stark looked startled enough that he might honestly have forgotten that Hunt and Brandt were in the Tower. 

“He’s the best,” Coulson answered, before an indignant Barton could reply. “Why do you ask?”

“Brandt’s a crack shot,” Ethan answered, a faint smirk forming on his lips even as he saw Brandt spin to look at him, face struck with incredulity. 

“Not with a bow and arrow, I’m not!”

A bow and - well, that explained the glove, Ethan reasoned. Although it raised a whole host of other questions, but he’d leave them for later.

“There’s a rifle in the jet,” Coulson answered, turning sharp eyes on Brandt. “Can you make a clean kill with it at five hundred yards?”

“With a scope, I can.”

“If we put you up high, can you watch for tactical problems, movements of enemies, and help to coordinate our attacks?”

“I’ll need binoculars for details, but yes.”

“This is important, Brandt,” Coulson pressed, leaning forward, one gentle hand settling on Barton’s shoulder to keep the archer silent. “Are you willing to fight with us?” 

Turning to look at Brandt, Ethan watched the man weighing variables behind his eyes, mind moving to calculate the odds and balances, before Brandt let his eyes fall shut, shaking his head as a breath of laughter escaped him. “I threw my lot in with you the minute I followed you into the parking garage, Coulson. It would be stupid of me to back out now.”

A sharp nod was the only answer he received, Coulson turning back to Clint, his face blank but his eyes begging. When Barton’s face remained defiant, Coulson sighed, setting his right hand against his sternum and moving his palm in a slow circle over his chest. 

It looked like nothing more than a man rubbing at an old injury that pained him, but Ethan blinked in surprise when the actual meaning of the gesture registered.   Clint glared for a moment more before sighing, his entire body sagging as the fight fled him all at once. Turning his head a few degrees, he glanced at Brandt out of the corner of his eye. “My spare gear’s on the jet. I don’t think we have to worry about it not fitting you.”

“Good,” Coulson said simply, then turned back to Clint, fisted his hand in the short hair at the back of the archer’s neck, and dragged him forward into a kiss. It was neither chaste nor brief, and Steve was blushing under Captain America’s cowl by the time they were done. 

Coulson drew back enough to press his forehead against Barton’s, hand still cradling the back of the man’s head as he whispered something too soft to hear against Barton’s kiss-swollen mouth.

Even without the intention to invade their privacy, lip-reading was an ingrained habit for Ethan, and he read Coulson’s strained _‘I don’t want you to get hurt again,_ ’ as the agent exhaled it against Barton’s lips. 

Barton sighed softly, bumped his forehead lightly against Coulson’s, and turned his head, ignoring the pull of Coulson’s fingers woven through his hair, to look Brandt square in the eye. “Take care of them.”

Beside Ethan, Brandt was nearly trembling, the rush of adrenaline and anxiety overtaking him again, rational mind battling the more primal anticipation and fear. Ethan reached up, grasping Brandt’s shoulder tight enough to hurt, tight enough to ground the other man, and Brandt exhaled in a shaky rush. “I will.”

His blessing given, Barton drew gingerly away from Coulson, settling himself into the sofa with a groan of pain that was barely muffled into an exhausted sigh. 

“More burn salve,” Coulson recommended, checking his sidearm and grabbing his jacket off the arm of the couch. “Agent Hunt, there’s arnica gel in the first-aid kit in the kitchen, it will help with your bruising.” To Brandt, he added, “Our call is in Chicago, we’ll have time to get you briefed and settled with the equipment in the air. Local law enforcement and a few of our allies are holding ground for now, but they’re going to need backup.”

“Preflight checks on the Quinjet have been completed, and a flight plan has been filed,” JARVIS informed them, and Tony chuckled out loud. 

“I’d say you were a godsend, JARVIS, but that would be awfully arrogant, wouldn’t it?” Tony grinned, banishing the information displays from the window with a sweep of his hand before unfastening the catch on the window and rolling it open like a sliding door.

“That’s never stopped you before, Stark,” Barton shouted, even as JARVIS drolly replied, “Exceedingly, sir.”

“I’ll see you all there, shall I?” Tony asked Coulson, who nodded wearily and watched without any expression whatsoever as Tony very calmly - 

\- jumped out the window. 

The instant of disbelief and panic that surged in Ethan’s throat didn’t even have time to register before something shot by him, too fast to be anything more than a blur of color and sound, with enough backwash to send him staggering.

“What the _hell,_ ” Brandt said, voicing the words that unexpected fear had stuck in Ethan’s throat. Scrambling forward, Ethan jumped the short distance down into the living room and hit the carpet running, ignoring the blazing stab of pain through his battered ribs, and was three steps from the window when Captain America caught him by his undamaged shoulder to pull him to a stop.

Outside of the window, a blaze of light marked Iron Man’s ascent into the atmosphere again, pausing long enough to wave at them through the window before straightening up and rocketing off, destined for Chicago.

“Is that his usual party trick?” Brandt asked from the back of the room, his voice tight. It was the tone he took so often with Ethan, the tone that said he was valiantly suppressing the urge to scream that he was surrounded by crazy people.

“It’s Stark,” Clint said, pulling a tablet computer out from under the sofa cushion he was sitting on and burying his nose in it. “You get used to him.”

Ethan eyed the window, a mixture of emotions still churning through him for a moment before asking “Do you think he’d let me try that?”

“ _No_ ,” Rogers answered emphatically, but his voice was halfway drowned out by Barton’s cheerful “Maybe if you ask nicely!”

In the abrupt silence, Rogers leveled a glare at Barton, who sat up straighter on the couch, regardless of how much it must have pained him, and glared right back. “No, Cap. Fuck no. You are not letting this get awkward, and you are not taking it out on people who aren’t responsible for it.”

“As sorry as I am to interrupt this argument,” Coulson cut in as Rogers opened his mouth, not sounding apologetic in the least, “we really do have to go, Captain. Clint, don’t play with anything explosive or incendiary until we get back.”

Barton gave the tablet in his hands a contemplative glance; Coulson snorted in response and jogged the few steps across the room to where Rogers and Ethan were still standing, and shepherded Rogers away with a hand on his elbow and a final admonition for Clint to behave. _Well_.

Barton blew a raspberry at him and slumped back into the couch, eyes not leaving the agent’s suited back until he’d vanished into the elevator with the rest of the group in tow, Brandt shoulder-to-shoulder with Banner. 

When the gleaming doors had slid shut behind them, though, Barton flicked his gaze to Ethan, inviting him to the couch with a wordless jerk of his head and asked for JARVIS to put the mission feed up on the main screen.

Ethan didn’t speak until he’d settled into the couch beside the archer, both of their attention focused on the window-turned-monitor in front of them, showing the scene in Chicago (giant mechanical flying jellyfish, what?), as well as the interior of the Quinjet. Brandt was running through the use of Clint’s modified rifle, Coulson was piloting, Banner in the co-pilot’s seat, and Rogers was pacing the length of the bay with tense strides. 

Ethan watched Captain America pace for a long minute before he glanced over at Barton. “What did I do to piss him off?”

Barton, to his credit, didn’t play dumb. “It wasn’t you. He’s working through some old shit that we just discovered, and it got messier than we’d expected.”

“Why does that not feel like the truth?” Ethan asked, wry rather than accusing, and the corner of Barton’s mouth quirked up in response. 

“ ‘cuz you’re smarter than you look?” Barton hazarded. “It’s not your fault, but I didn’t say it had nothing to do with you. Hey, JARVIS! Wrangle permission outta Tony and then replay the footage from the lab last night for Hunt.” Clapping Ethan on the shoulder - the injured one, because he was on Ethan’s left, but at least he was gentle - he pushed himself to his feet. “I’m gonna go grab us some beers.”

Ethan shot a questioning glance at him even as JARVIS announced that Stark had given him permission and would Agent Hunt please pick up the tablet to view the footage. 

“Trust me, after you see that, you’re going to need a drink,” Barton muttered, and shuffled off to the kitchen. 

_________________________________________

When Barton returned with the beer and settled at his side, emanating silent sympathy, Ethan drained two bottles in quick succession and let his head fall into his hands, not sure whether he should laugh, curse, or cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gesture Coulson uses is the American Sign Language sign for 'please'.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES: Discussion/references/spoilers for 2001: A Space Odyssey (although can they really be called spoilers when the film is forty-five years old??) and Disney’s Hercules. Because [Go The Distance](http://www.elyrics.net/read/d/disney-lyrics/i-can-go-the-distance-lyrics.html) is *so* Clint’s song. Even if I do feel like he identifies with Meg... it’s the purple.

“So,” Brandt murmured casually, stomach-down on the deck of the Quinjet, sighting through the scope on Barton’s heavily modified sniper rifle, “do we actually think it’s a good idea leaving Ethan and your guy unsupervised in a glass building full of dangerous equipment?”

“They’re not unsupervised,” Coulson called back from the pilot’s seat, eyes fixed on the open air in front of him, even if Brandt’s prone position did do utterly fantastic things for the presentation of the man’s ass. “JARVIS is watching them.”

There was a moment of silence, followed by Brandt slowly rolling onto his side to send an incredulous glance down the length of the jet. “An AI is going to be able to keep them in check?”

“I realize it sounds unlikely,” Coulson answered, a faint smile threading amusement through his voice. “But JARVIS isn’t just a voice in the ceiling. He can take control of any or all of the mechanics and tech in the Tower if necessary.”

Brandt mulled that over for a minute and grimaced. “Sounds like A Space Odyssey waiting to happen.”

Banner snorted from the co-pilot’s seat. “Open the pod bay doors, HAL!”

The commline crackled to life, spilling Tony’s voice from the console of the jet. “Don’t even joke about my JARVIS in the context of that miserable piece of malfunctioning code. He’s superior in every conceivable way.”

There was a scuff and a sigh as Steve stopped pacing, leaning back against the protruding bulkhead behind the pilot’s compartment. His cowl was shoved back and his hair was falling in a tousled mess over his forehead, making him look far too young. “I have no idea what any of you are talking about,” he sighed, sounding more resigned than confused. 

“Movie. Nineteen-sixty-something, science fiction, kinda groundbreaking, actually,” Tony supplied over the comms. “We’ll watch it tomorrow, how’s that?” 

“Sir, I do not think that is wise,” came JARVIS’ answer, before Steve could even begin to formulate a response. 

There was a comical moment of wide-eyed silence from everyone save Steve, who looked on, bewildered, as the rest of the jet’s occupants shot the console expressions of varying degrees of alarm. 

“And why’s that, exactly?” If Tony shared the alarm that the others were experiencing, his easy tone didn’t show it. 

“I do not feel that the content of the film would prove emotionally beneficial to the members of the team,” JARVIS answered tactfully. 

Brandt considered the content of the movie for a moment; the deaths of the crew, the man-out-of-time connotations, and winced as he remembered the stories he’d heard about the Captain’s history and resurrection. “You’re very considerate, JARVIS.”

“I am merely putting my emotional capacity to the fullest possible use, which is all I think that any conscious entity can ever hope to do,” JARVIS replied dryly, which set Tony off laughing hard enough that he nearly banked into a building, and left Coulson and Banner snickering at the controls. 

“And you don’t mind using that emotional capacity to keep tabs on Ethan and Clint?” Brandt asked wryly, shifting upwards into a braced kneel, the nose of the rifle resting on the bench seat as he tested the balance.

“It is both my duty and my honor to act as a protector for those who protect,” JARVIS answered steadily, but Brandt, to his amazement, could hear a note of actual pride in the program’s voice. “Both from external threats and the threats they present themselves.”

“Oh, so they’ll only cause minor explosions, then,” Brandt muttered.

“Stark can afford the repairs,” Coulson called back from his seat, a smile audible in his voice. “But I’ll stake twenty dollars that we’ll find them doing something completely unexpected.”

“I know better than to bet against ranking SHIELD agents,” Rogers answered on a laugh, even as Stark came back over the comms to vociferously accept Coulson’s bet.

___________________________________

 

“So,” Ethan said softly, after a second beer bottle clinked empty on the table in front of him, “sign language?”

Clint, his first bottle still half-full and half-forgotten in his hand, blinked at Ethan, his gaze scrutinizing. Both of them were spies and killers; they were too honest to play the _‘oh, you saw that?’_ game, and Ethan endured the feeling of being dissected by Barton’s stare until the man turned away, having drawn whatever conclusions he needed.

“A few years ago,” Barton began, his gaze steady on the television screen, watching without seeing as a flying jellyfish chased a police cruiser down a Chicago street, “a mission went south. I got captured, and I had to do something stupid with a sonic arrowhead to get myself out of trouble. I spent six months mostly deaf.”

Ethan winced instinctively. The thought of losing one of the senses was frightening enough for a civilian, but only another field agent would understood the sheer terror of the implications; an injury that rendered them unfit for the field, took away their usefulness and reason for being. “How’d you manage?”

Barton waved one hand in a vague, lopsided arc, cautious of the burns he’d aggravated earlier. “Medical worked out hearing aides for me and put me back in the field as soon as my head stopped hurting. Coulson busted my ass until I learned to sign, made sure he was the one that went out with me on missions, and finally found a medical research project for treatment of injuries most people would consider permanent.”

Ethan arched an eyebrow at him, a silent question, and Barton huffed an acknowledging laugh, even with his eyes fixed straight ahead. 

“Stark Industries was in the medical field for a lot of years before Tony stuck a nightlight in his chest,” he offered, half an explanation that stood in for the whole. “Most of the experimentation was nanotech. They told us it was mostly intended for spinal cord injuries and that sort of stuff, but it turned out they worked just fine on repairing sonic-trauma deafness.” 

Barton paused momentarily, halfway through lifting his beer bottle back to his lips. “The nanotech that gave me back my hearing is actually the earlier version of the stuff that saved Phil’s life,” he added musingly. “I think all of us owe Tony our lives in some form or another.” 

Ethan exhaled softly, watching on the screen as the jellyfish hurtled back up the Chicago street, an up-armored Humvee close on its tail. Err, tentacles. “For a while,” Ethan offered, cautious but not hesitant, “I was afraid the Cobalt mission - the one where Brandt joined my team - was going to be my last.”

Barton gave a faint grunt of inquiry, rolling his head slightly to glance at Ethan out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t a question, but it was both an offer of trust and an invitation to continue. 

“I took some bad hits on that mission,” Ethan explained, flexing his knee when a phantom twinge went through it at the thought. “Really bad. Needed two surgeries on my knee, and even then, they weren’t sure I’d get full mobility back.” Sighing, he let his head fall back against the back of the sofa, testing the stretch of the bruised skin across his back and shoulder. “I’m the oldest agent IMF has in the field. I know my days are numbered, but I’ve never considered retiring. It’s all I’ve got.”

Clint hummed absently in lieu of replying, rolling his head back to glance at the camera in the ceiling. “Hey, JARVIS, sidescreen the mission feed and put _Hercules_ on for me, would you?”

“Of course, Master Clint,” came the immediate response, followed by the lights dimming and the center screen lighting up to a view of animated Grecian urns. 

Ethan turned enough to shoot Barton an incredulous glance. “Disney movies.”

“We can do Miyazaki if you prefer,” came the reply, all wide-eyed innocence that Ethan didn’t believe for a moment. 

“No, no, Hercules is fine,” he answered, amused, and settled in to watch the Muses singing, not quite ignoring Barton humming along with the music. The archer began singing outright when the film rolled around to _Go the Distance_ , his warm-whiskey voice twining seamlessly with the voice actor’s, expression almost yearning as he sang along.

“So, is this it, then?” Ethan asked when the song was over, and Zeus’ statue had come to life to proclaim Hercules his son. “Is this where you belong?”

“I like to think so,” Barton answered blandly, and stared at the screen in resolute silence for almost twenty minutes as the film progressed. 

It wasn’t until they were watching a ragged, slime-covered Hercules stagger out of the Hydra’s severed throat that Barton spoke up again. “My dad was a mean drunk and my mom was a doormat. I spent my childhood being good for nothing but a target, until I ran away to the circus and learned to hit them.”

Ethan paused midway through a mouthful of his third beer, staring at Barton over the edge of the bottle as he slowly pulled it away from his mouth. Barton was still gazing fixedly at the screen, his face so carefully blank that Ethan almost flinched, knowing what that kind of control cost - and what it hid.

“The circus,” he repeated, carefully keeping anything but mild curiosity out of his tone, and Barton nodded once, short and sharp. 

“It wasn’t such a bad gig,” Barton answered drily, gazing as though entranced at the dated computer animation of the screaming Hydra. “I learned to pull my weight, learned to shoot, learned how to give a hit as well as take one.” He paused to take a mouthful of water from the bottle he’d tucked in the corner of the sofa next to his hip, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand with a thoughtful frown. “If they hadn’t tried to kill me, I would actually have said it was fun.”

“Ah,” Ethan smiled, tipping his bottle at Barton in a lopsided salute. “That’s where Brandt would say you were insane.”

“Nothing the shrinks don’t tell me, like, every session,” Barton muttered, hiding a dull flush behind another swig of water. “That’s never really been a question.”

Ethan grinned in response. “It’s never been a problem, either. We’re the ones that survive.”

“By the skin of our teeth, sometimes. Is it true that you jumped off the top of the Burj Khalifa?”

“I didn’t _jump off the top of it _,” Ethan answered, indignant. “I rappelled down the side of it and had to improvise when my line came up short.”__

__Barton’s snort spoke eloquently of precisely what he thought of that. “Will said he had to grab you by the ankles to stop you from falling a hundred and thirty stories.”_ _

__The back of his neck prickled with something uncomfortably like embarrassment, and Ethan rubbed at it sheepishly. “He wasn’t exaggerating.”_ _

__Now, for the first time since the movie had started, Barton swiveled his head to fix Ethan with an unblinking stare. “He cares about you, you know, Brandt does.”_ _

__The statement was enough of a non-sequitur to leave Ethan without a reply, and Barton turned his head slowly back to the sight of Hercules and Meg in the garden. “When the Hulk went through the wall on you, Brandt thought you’d been killed. All he could think about was how he’d let you down.”_ _

__“Brandt’s never let me down,” Ethan snapped back, voice sharp. “He’s an exemplary agent, and I owe him my life a hundred times over.”_ _

__When Barton’s eyes fixed on him this time, there was a palpable weight behind them, a force in the gaze that Ethan could nearly feel pinning him in place, leaving him struggling to so much as draw a breath._ _

__“When I left the circus,” Barton said, each word clipped and clear, “I slid sideways into a life of crime and didn’t stop running until some dickhead in a suit shot me in the leg. Turned out to be his method of recruiting people.”_ _

__“Coulson,” Ethan said, not a guess and not a question, but Barton nodded anyway, turning back to the screen and beginning to sing again, softly echoing the words. _‘At least out loud, I won’t say I’m in love.’__ _

__“Coulson saved my life the night he recruited me,” Barton said softly when the music trailed off, rubbing the thumb of his left hand absently over the skin at the base of his fingers. “He hasn’t stopped since. I know Brandt does the same for you.”_ _

__“I don’t think the two situations have much in common,” Ethan answered slowly, and found himself on the receiving end of a glare that ranked somewhere between pitying and disgusted._ _

__“I think,” Barton answered, with the ponderous weight of a man relaying the wisdom of the world to a mentally deficient toddler, “that you need to start thinking a little more.”_ _

__They passed the rest of the movie in silence._ _


End file.
